Ooh, THAT kind of mail
by Be3
Summary: Going against the will of Cardinal Richelieu usually meant losing to Cardinal Richelieu, and losing to him meant... Eh... But, Planchet told himself, usually wasn't always.
1. Planchet, Three Musketeers

'...and then there was a giant who had a spade as long as the Lyon Cathedral's spire.'  
There was a snore from Bazin.  
'As long or as tall?' frowned Mousqueton.  
Grimaud shook his head. _The spire itself would not be that long, or tall._  
'Must you be so rude?' Planchet asked waspishly. 'The point is that I fought and defeated him with two strikes of my pocket knife.'  
Bazin snored again.  
Grimaud looked like he actually wanted to say something.  
'Anyway, what has happened here? Are we still in deep peril, destined to be drowned, hanged, set up, blown up or anything you please?'  
_There's a war, _Grimaud motioned serenely.  
'I think... I think there wasn't much excitement after the Wine Incident,' was Mousqueton's ponderous reply.  
Poisoned wine! Planchet shuddered anew. What a perfectly horrible way to die.  
'And did we learn from it,' Mousqueton went on, exchanging a sly look with Grimaud. 'Have you wondered why Bazin emits such unlikely fragrance?'  
He gaped at them.  
They smirked.  
Still, Bazin snored on.  
'You know,' he said, pursing his lips. 'There should be a reason for me to suspect that you take turns sampling it...'  
_You, not we? _asked Grimaud's raised eyebrow.  
'... or that you played cards, and he lost...'  
'Bazin? Lost?' Mousqueton asked in disbelief, and hurriedly corrected himself. 'At cards?'  
Or didn't correct himself, it was always so hard to tell.  
'...but somehow I think you don't...'  
Grimaud coughed slightly.  
'...and he didn't...'  
Mousqueton shrugged.  
'...and you cheat.'  
And he made a show of examining his own glass.  
'True, we are not saints,' Mousqueton said with dignity. 'But consider what company we keep! This very bottle has to have sold her innocence to more mysterious suitors than any girl in Paris!'  
'Dreadful,' said Planchet.  
_Abominable,_ agreed Grimaud's forlorn sigh.  
Mousqueton cleared his throat. 'Yet we forgive her her trespasses, out of the goodness of our hearts.'  
'Amen.'  
They drank then, and Planchet suddenly wished he could linger, not yet walk outside into the terrible shelterlessness of the camp, where any stray shot could cut his life so easily.  
A shot! Why not a river of molten lava...  
'It's chilly,' remarked Mousqueton, acknowledging what he would not.  
And Grimaud offered him a cloak to bring to his master.


	2. d'Art and Porthos, Twenty years after

A/N: a 'Twenty years after' drabble.

'He expects us!' cried Porthos impatiently, surprised by d'Artagnan's sudden reluctance to answer the cardinal's call. 'Why do you tarry?'  
D'Artagnan shook his head.  
'Not yet; not yet. We, my dear du Vallon, are poorly dressed for the occasion.'  
'Eh?' asked Porthos, looking from his friend's cunning expression to the twitching moustache of the Musketeer on duty.  
'Surely if two such _loyal_ men walk through a hostile crowd, their attire would be adjusted accordingly?'  
'Ah!' said Porthos. '_Well!_ But I must tell you, mon ami, I like this baldric.'  
'You have a definite taste for them,' conceded D'Artagnan, divesting himself of his cloak and beaver. 'Reckon one shot is enough? I hate stitching cuts.'  
In the end, d'Artagnan was promoted to six shots, and Porthos received a terrible blow from a halberd, and the high feather on his grand hat was irreparably damaged.  
And if the cardinal saw any fault with their sacrifices, why, he was welcome to go out himself.


	3. Treville and the Four,after La Rochelle

A drabble set shortly after the siege of La Roschelle, in which the Musketeers ran into a random fugitive and did what came most naturally. And then their Captain learned of it.

M. de Treville was sitting behind his desk, and his four least obedient sons were standing before it. They could indeed be mistaken for brothers, for all the differences in body and face; and that was surely the effect of M. de Treville's paternal speech.  
He took a moment to let it sink in, breathing heavily through his nose. Bad enough that he'd lost men to the war. Bad enough that that _boy _was even worse than himself! Why didn't they understand that heretics were enemies of the State and the Church? One didn't just wave them on their way!  
'Porthos!' he barked, hoping for a straight answer. 'Explain the reasoning behind your action!'  
Porthos shrugged serenely.  
'Meh, it was a woman. Who cares what they think?'  
Aramis looked down, and d'Artagnan seemed pensive.  
'Athos?'  
'My judgement was impaired,' said the eldest of the four in a smooth tone that did not invite questioning.  
'D'Artagnan! Does the name of Richelieu care any weight with you?'  
'Yes, Monsieur...'  
'Did you hope to score some sort of, of, I cannot say victory, for all the sense you showed in this -'  
'No, Monsieur...'  
'Because if ever you did anything more suited to incite his ire -'  
'Monsieur, d'Artagnan was out patrolling. He didn't take any part in this.'  
'Oh.'  
But he was willing to take the credit, apparently.  
'Aramis?'  
Aramis raised his eyes.  
'I did it out of egoism and fear.'  
Silence.  
Silence.  
'WHAT?'  
'For is he not a selfish man who thinks of his own soul first, and not of the poor mother carrying her infant away from plague, carnage and famine?'  
Athos was smiling invisibly. Porthos looked like he wanted to argue, but wasn't certain about what. D'Artagnan was biting his lips.  
'Captain? How did you learn of it? Only our servants knew - Bazin escorted her out.'  
'Eh.'  
'I mean, what if the Cardinal does get wind of it?'  
'Hm.'  
'Who told you?'  
'Well,' said M. de Treville stiffly. 'Nobody did.'  
Porthos stared at him in awe. Aramis was perfectly bland. D'Artagnan, a Gascon to the end, was curious at how he would come out on top.  
Athos was smiling. Visibly.  
'And if ever a man deserved to be selfish...' Treville began haughtily.  
He let it unfinished.  
Because Captains of the King Musketeers didn't give alms to fleeing Huguenots.  
And they weren't bowed to with such fierce deference.


End file.
